Love Lessons: Brooklyn, #7

By Sarina Bowen

He needs a do-over, but she wants to give him a makeover. Can these two opposites resist their attraction? A new hockey romance from Wall Street Journal bestseller Sarina Bowen!

After I'm arrested for throwing a raucous party, my hockey team says I have an image problem. And I need to fix it, stat.

Charity work? Check. Haircut? Sure. But I draw the line at hiring my neighbor to style me. In the first place "style" shouldn't be a verb. And I'm tired of people who'd judge me on appearances.

Vera and I don't see eye to eye on anything. She wants me to try on clothes, while I just want to remove hers. She's distractingly pretty, with soulful eyes and a sinful mouth that likes to argue with me.

But when management threatens my summer vacation, I grudgingly agree to Vera's unusual proposal: she'll give me an image makeover. But in return, she wants lessons in the art of seduction.

It sounds a little nutty, but I know a good opening when I hear it. Besides, it's not like I'll ever fall for her…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tuxbury Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781950155378

Book preview

ONE

Occupational Hazard

VERA

July

The dress has to be exactly right, my client says. Even though we’re on a Zoom call, I can see that she’s wringing her hands.

What’s the occasion? I ask, my pen poised above my notebook.

My stepdaughter’s wedding. And, well, it’s complicated. Even after five years, her mother’s family is openly hostile to me.

Oh, ouch. I set down my pen. So your dress has to walk a fine line. Beautiful but understated.

Yes! Her eyes light up. It has to be classy but not dull. I need to look stunning but not flashy. And it can’t be too young or too sexy, because the bride’s mother makes me out to be some kind of slutty Cruella de Vil.

So I shouldn’t show you anything in a Dalmatian print, then?

Thanks, but no. She laughs. My friend told me you would make this fun. I dread this wedding, if you want the truth. The only part of it I’m looking forward to is a new dress.

We got this, I tell her. I realize an outfit won’t make years of trouble go away. But if the dress is just right, it can change your whole outlook. It can bring you a few hours of much-needed magic.

So where do we start? she asks. And money is no object.

I can’t imagine ever using those words. But it doesn’t hurt her choices. I’m going to ask you a few questions about your preferences, and then I can gather some photos to show you. What color are the bridesmaids’ dresses? We don’t want to match them, but we don’t want you to clash, either.

They’re light pink.

And— That’s as far as I get before the noise starts up outside. Nrrr-nrrr! Ngggn-ngggn. It’s a deafening buzz—the sound of metal teeth tearing through a piece of lumber.

Oh no. Not again.

My head gives a throb, and I feel like crying. I’ve been subjected to this all day, on and off—the buzz saw of death—and it’s right outside my Brooklyn window.

On the computer screen in front of me, my client flinches on Zoom. She can’t hear my apology, so I mime one moment and mute my microphone. At least one of us doesn’t have to listen to the sound of her own head splitting open.

Oh God. Our meeting was going so well. Not only is this loud and inconvenient, but it’s stressful. My personal-stylist business is still in the fledgling stages, and every client counts. If I can’t make this work, I’ll burn through my savings. Then I’ll end up begging for my old job back at the Midtown department store.

Who could build a tiny but stylish empire under these conditions?

The moment the awful sound stops, I unmute myself and smile tightly. Sorry about that. We were talking about sleeve length. You said this wedding is in September?

That’s right. It’s indoors, so I could really go either—

Nrrr-nrrr!

God, she can’t even get the sentence out of her mouth before the sound starts up again. Panicking, I hit mute again. I’m so frustrated I could throw my computer across the room.

I smile instead. This is a new client—a referral. And I desperately need her to think of me as a professional.

You know, she says when it’s finally quiet. Maybe we should do this another time?

Anything you need, I say quickly. Are you free tomorrow?

Yes! You could meet me in my office, she suggests. Ten thirty?

My heart drops. Absolutely, I agree sweetly, even though her office is on the Upper East Side and a forty-five-minute commute away. I don’t really have the time for that meeting. But I also don’t have the time to drive her away before my first sale to her. Tell me your address.

After we sign off, I pop out of my chair, throw my keys in my pocket, and stomp out of my first-floor unit. I already know who is causing me all this trouble—my new neighbor. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

And I’m not going to get distracted by his biceps, either. Or his broad shoulders.

I fly out the front door and jog down all seven steps to the sidewalk. I live in a brownstone building on Hudson Avenue, and I used to consider this the perfect apartment on the perfect block. My cozy one-bedroom has an original prewar fireplace in the living room, and a bow window that faces the street. I’ve lived here for four years, and I never want to leave.

Now that I’m starting my own business, I spend a lot of time at home. That fireplace in my living room makes a great backdrop for the photos I often send to clients. It’s classic and stylish—all the things my new business is trying so hard to be.

And yet one muscular hockey player in ripped jeans and safety goggles is ruining the whole neighborhood.

He doesn’t even look up as I park my seething self on the sidewalk in front of his godawful saw. Instead, he runs a rugged hand over the beam he’s just cut.

I wait. I fume. And I also mentally restyle him, which is kind of an occupational hazard. But nobody needs a glowup quite so badly as Ian Crikey. His brown hair is in need of a trim. He’s wearing a threadbare Metallica T-shirt that ought to look like trash. It practically is trash—I count three holes along the side seam. Yet it hugs his powerful chest so perfectly I really want to kick something.

This is the other problem with Ian. I’m secretly, uncomfortably, outrageously attracted to him. And it makes no sense to me. He makes no sense. The man has enough money to buy the building next to mine, which is more money than I’ll ever have in my lifetime. The place was listed for over three million dollars.

He’s a highly paid famous athlete, and yet I don’t think he owns a comb or any clothes without holes in them. It’s ridiculous. Bearded men are not my type. And don’t even get me started on those tattoos peeking out of his T-shirt sleeves. That’s not my thing, either. But they work on him somehow. I can’t stop staring at them.

It’s horrible.

Finally satisfied with his handiwork, he looks up and removes his safety goggles.

Yikes. Now I’m confronted with his cool blue eyes. Their pale, luminous hue is just too pretty for that rugged face. And nobody who’s ruining my day should look that good. It’s unsettling.

Something I can help you with, countess? he asks.

"Are you kidding me right now? My voice is already high and hysterical. It’s the middle of the workday. I’m trying to do calls with clients, but we can’t hear each other talk. At all. You’ve basically shut down my livelihood. There are probably regulations against making so much noise."

He gives me an irritating smirk. Regulations, huh? This neighborhood is big on those. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a muscular arm that I’m absolutely not admiring right now. Somebody called the cops last night on me and my teammates. Said we were a nuisance.

Well? Were you? I demand, trying to keep the guilt off my face. I’d called the precinct last night at midnight, but I probably hadn’t been the only one. All I’d wanted was for someone to knock on his door and tell him to turn the music down a little. It had worked—a cop car had pulled up outside, lights flashing. A few minutes later—while I hid in my bathroom, brushing my teeth—everything had gone quiet.

We weren’t that loud. Ian adjusts the Brooklyn Bruisers baseball cap on his head and sighs. Who looks good sweaty and covered with sawdust? It’s just not fair. Would have been better if the neighbors knocked on my door and just asked me to be quiet. He smiles suddenly. But I guess that’s what you’re doing right now, yeah? I ’spose the saw is pretty loud.

Horribly loud, I agree. "You could do this work inside, you realize." I point toward the open door of the building he’s purchased.

He laughs. I’m not standing here on the sidewalk for my health, countess. The lumberyard dropped off these posts at a length too long to fit around the corner in there.

Oh. My face reddens. Is it going to be like this all summer, though? I’ll have to find somewhere else to work.

Nah, once I demo that awkward entryway, fitting stuff through the door will be easier. He lifts his square chin to indicate what is indeed a narrow doorway with a claustrophobic little hallway beyond. Live and learn. But after one more cut, I’ll be out of your very carefully styled hair.

One of my hands flies up to the chic waterfall braid that keeps my dark hair looking tidy. "What’s that supposed to mean? If we’re comparing hairstyles, I have a few thoughts on your sawdust look."

He shrugs. Real work is messy. You should thank me. This building was an eyesore. I’m gonna make it look good again. So thank you for welcoming me to the neighborhood with a whole lot of attitude. He pauses to allow those blue eyes to do a slow scan of my body. Although, the view sure is nice.

And, wow, I am not a fan of the way his hot gaze makes me feel so reckless inside. I let out a squeak of irritation. "Thank you for making my workday excruciating and not caring all that much."

He shrugs. "You seem a little wound up, countess. How about I make this up to you? We’ll go out for a drink tonight and then work out our differences." A smug smile lights his face as he says this, and somehow it comes out sounding dirty.

I give a slow blink, and for half a second, I try to picture it—sitting on a barstool right beside him. He’d prop an elbow on the bar, his big hand cupping a pint glass.

Then I also imagine his devious smile and the swimmy, off-kilter feeling I get when those blue eyes focus on me.

Nope. That’s not going to happen. I’m not exactly famous for letting go and having fun. The last guy I tried to date told me in no uncertain terms that I was hopeless.

Besides, it’s probably not even a real invitation. He’s just trying to throw me off my game. Even if you were serious, I say swiftly, I’m sure I’m not your type.

His smile fades. You’re sure, huh? Because I don’t use hair gel? Because my shoes aren’t shiny? He takes an exaggerated glance down at the dusty work boots he’s wearing. You don’t swipe right on guys like me?

I’ve never swiped right on anyone, I admit, and immediately my face feels hot. That’s too much information. If he knew what a prude I was, he’d laugh his muscular butt off.

I’ve seen the crowd of women hockey players gather—women who know how to do shots and play darts and flirt like it’s a professional sport. That will never be me.

How many more of those do you have to cut? I ask, getting down to business. Is it really only one?

Yeah, that one. He points at a board lying between the saw and the building. You want to do the honors? It’s kinda satisfying. Seems like you need to work out your aggressions. He snickers.

No! I say quickly. Not really my thing.

Suit yourself, countess. He picks up the safety goggles. Cover your ears.

I do one better. I sprint back to the stoop of my building and leap up the steps, ready to salvage my afternoon. And I swear I feel his eyes on my backside as I go. But it’s probably only my imagination.

TWO

A Walk on the Rough Side

IAN

I watch Vera walk back up the steps, her ass swaying, her hips in motion, until she disappears into her building. A woman like her—in those designer clothes and shiny high heels—will often enjoy taking a walk on the rough side with me. And Vera feels the urge. Her big brown eyes don’t hide much.

But I do not understand that woman. She looks at me like she’s starving, and I’m the last bagel at the bakery. But when I try to start something, she shoots me down. That’s twice now. I must be losing my touch.

Wouldn’t surprise me. These past few months have been a trial.

Still, I could show Vera a good time. We’ve got nothing in common, but I don’t see why that should matter. We could have all kinds of fun together. Doesn’t have to mean anything. And I’ve got a lot of tension to work through, that’s for damn sure. Lots of things in my life are suddenly going wrong—even the ones that usually go right.

Last night, for example, I’d thrown a party in the empty space I’m fixing up. It had been an excuse to blow off steam with my teammates. Our season had ended on a rough note for me, and I’ve been struggling since spring.

A couple months ago, I’d hurt a guy in a fight. Fighting is part of my job. I’m good at it, and I always follow the unwritten code of honor among enforcers. In April, though, something had gone very wrong. The fight hadn’t ended with a couple of split lips or a loosened tooth. Somehow, I’d dealt that guy a career-ending injury.

I haven’t slept a full night since.

Then came the playoffs. I hadn’t been at my best, even as the rest of my team had shone like stars. We’d made it all the way to the third round and had been this close to winning the conference. Game seven had gone into overtime, and we could have sealed the deal.

Until I’d fouled one of our opponents. Got mad, tripped him in front of the ref, and took a penalty.

Tampa had won it on the power play, and that had been it for us.

The season ended a month ago, and I’m still not over it. Although renovating the building helps. Construction work is good for the soul. The lower floor of this building I’ve bought—the commercial space—is empty now. So last night I’d invited my guys into my new space and had fed them pizza and beer. It got a little loud. There was music. There was dancing and smack talk. We are not a quiet bunch.

But then the cops showed up. My temper had flared and I’d argued when they’d said we were a neighborhood nuisance. That’s when a red-faced rookie cop had arrested my ass.

So that was a low point. Never been handcuffed before. I’d felt sick to my stomach when they’d made me stand in front of that mugshot wall and then took my fingerprints.

That’s not me. I pride myself on being a good teammate and a good guy.

Until last night.

To make matters worse, I’ve got a meeting today with the team’s management. They want to talk about all my recent unbecoming behavior.

Christ. Where will my unlucky streak end?

I blow the sawdust off my tools and pick up the scraps of wood off the sidewalk. I’m finished cutting beams, and I have to get ready for my meeting. Working with my hands always calms me down. But even that got me into trouble with the neighbors.

Figures.

Summer vacation is supposed to be the most relaxing time of the year. But I’m not relaxed. Not even a little.

I unplug the saw. I’m winding up the cord when I feel eyes on me. Straightening up, I lift my gaze to the front window of Vera’s building. There’s movement there, damn it. The glare prevents me from getting a clear view inside. But I know what I saw.

She likes watching me. Even if she won’t admit it.

I look right at that damn window and smile. Then I lift a hand and give her a wave and a cheesy wink. She’ll hate that.

I feel a little better already.

It’s weird walking into the Bruisers’ headquarters on a summer day—like showing up at high school during summer vacation. The practice rink is drained for maintenance, and the locker room is cleared of jerseys.

During June and July, the place runs on a skeleton crew. Management comes in only a couple days a week. The trainers work limited hours, accommodating the athletes who want to use the gym.

There’re only two reasons to go to the team HQ in the middle of summer—to lift weights or see management. Since I prefer the former to the latter, I head over early to do a nice heavy workout.

It helps, too. After several sets of squats and lunges in the lonely gym, I’m sweating from every pore and feeling more like myself. In the quiet locker room, I take a quick shower and get dressed.

As I’m leaving the practice facility, I hear voices in the stretching room. Since there’s no need to be early for my lashing upstairs, I open the door to see who’s here.

Two heads whip in my direction. There’s my teammate, Newgate, and the new trainer, Gavin. They both look startled to see me.

Hey guys, I say into the silence. Just wondered who was around on a hot July day.

Hey, Newgate says stiffly. He walks right past me and out the door.

Okay. Whatever. He and I aren’t close, but that was kinda rude. I guess I’m not the only one in a sorry-ass mood today.

Gavin just shakes his head. Need a spotter? he asks. I thought Newgate was going to work out, but it looks like I came in for nothing.

No, I’ve got a meeting with the suits.

Lot of that going around, Gavin says quietly. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.

My stomach rolls. Thanks, man. Appreciate it.

I go upstairs to take my beating.

In here, Crikey. Thank you for coming in. Hugh Major, our team manager, waves me into his office.

Of course, sir. I take a seat in the chair opposite his desk. The only other person present is Tommy, one of the co-heads of publicity. I guess that’s a good sign—a firing squad of just two.

I can take ’em.

All right. Hugh slaps a meaty hand on his big, intimidating desk. "Now what the ever-loving fuck happened last night?"

Uh-oh.

He fixes me with a stare. Arrested? Is that really the look you need right now?

No, sir, I agree quickly. But in my defense, it was just a party. I wanted to throw a rager while the place was still in rough shape. But there was no actual raging—just music and dancing.

Still, Hugh grunts. He seems to be trying some kind of intimidation tactic with his eyes. It’s a look that says: Fly straight, asshole, or I’ll have you sent down to the farm team by cocktail hour. "Have you seen your mugshot? Because every reader of Puck Raiders has."

He swivels his laptop around, and I brace myself.

And, yup. It’s even worse than I thought. The photo makes me look like a total hooligan. My hair is too long. My eyes are red, because some girl at my party had been smoking. I’m wearing a faded concert T-shirt with a little rip in the neckline.

I look like a deadbeat. Ouch.

"Yeah, ouch. Hugh snorts. Fans who search your name are going to find this. Hell, your father is probably reading it right now."

I groan and sink down in my chair. He’s right, of course, but playing the father card is a low blow. My dad and Hugh had played on the same college team a million years ago. They send each other Christmas cards every year.

God. This is bad. So bad.

So, let’s review, Hugh says darkly. The record of your arrest is out there in the media. And the last time your name cropped up on the blogs, you’d dealt another player a career-ending injury.

My stomach tenses. That fight still freaks me out. I hit the guy—a rookie from Boston—in the chest. His pads should have protected him. But somehow, they hadn’t. His clavicle broke under my bare-knuckled punch. When I close my eyes at night, I can still feel the pop under my fist as I’d hit him.

His helmet had snapped off, and he’d screamed when he went down, bouncing his head off the ice.

Davis Deutsch was the number-three draft pick, and he might never play again. Clavicles are tricky, I hear. He needs multiple surgeries. There were bone fragments…

I suppress a shudder every time I think about it. A couple times a week I wake up in a cold sweat from dreams about the fight.

And yet I don’t even know what I would have done differently. I really don’t.

He picked that fight, I remind my manager. "I would’a never thrown down the gloves with that youngster. Clearly didn’t know what he was doing. But fighting guys whenever I’m challenged is literally my job. There’s honor in it."

Up to a point, Hugh counters. But there’s no honor in a drunken arrest.

I hang my head. And when I do, I notice my khakis have a stain on the cuff, and my Brooklyn Hockey polo shirt is wrinkly. Because of course it is.

Look, Hugh says. "You have an image problem. Which means your team has an image problem. It’s also your job to represent this organization in a professional manner. Says so right in your contract."

I swallow hard. The lawyer you guys found for me said we can get those charges dropped, I point out. The cop overstepped.

That’s true, Tommy the publicist offers. In fact, the lawyer got the charges dropped an hour ago. It was only the cop’s second night on patrol, apparently.

Thank fuck. My shoulders drop with relief. "Wow. Okay. So now I can move on, right? I swear the party wasn’t that disorderly."

Legally, you’re in the clear, Tommy says. But nonetheless, we’re going to ask you to work hard on your image this summer. Both the Brooklyn hockey teams are doing well, which is great, but we’re more visible than ever. So I’m going to need some buy-in from you.

Sure, I say quickly. Whatever you need. And I could, uh, do some extra charity work next season, maybe?

Oh, that’s just a given. No more loud parties…

"No parties, period," Hugh says.

I need you looking approachable at all times, in case you’re photographed. Nice clothes. Nice haircut. No beer in your hand.

Ever? I gasp.

Tommy shrugs. Don’t drink in public. What have you been up to this summer, anyway?

Rehabbing the building I bought. Usually, I go golfing somewhere with the guys or hiking in Vermont. But this year… I hesitate.

Yeah? he asks, looking up from the notes he’s taking.

Drake has invited a bunch of us to his villa in Italy. It’s a house— I almost say party. Gathering. On some lake.

Right. Lake Como, Tommy says. "I’ve heard that place is amazing. Lots of paparazzi there, though. The place is crawling